


The Journey-Work of the Stars

by triedunture



Series: Leaves of Grass [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Fallen Castiel, Frottage, Human Castiel, Hunter Retirement, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Sam Winchester's Demonic Powers, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-07
Updated: 2011-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-25 20:16:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/triedunture/pseuds/triedunture
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 4, the last part in the <a href="http://triedunture.livejournal.com/tag/spn%20leaves%20of%20grass">Leaves of Grass</a> series. Cas is on a hunt for his missing grace. Sam is starting to get his future-seeing dreams again. Dean just wants to either kick Cas's ass for leaving or kiss the hell out of him, or both. Solo hunting badassery, psychic bickering, ghost towns, and a ton of people who want Castiel's wings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Journey-Work of the Stars

The field is dark and damp, a shifting world of shadows underneath a sickle moon. Cas crouches in the tall grass, clutching his knife in a white-knuckled grip. His heart is racing in his chest like a separate living thing. There is sweat dripping down the back of his neck and along his spine. He takes a shallow breath, closes his eyes, and listens. 

A low rustle passes through the reeds ten yards to his left. 

Cas is on his feet and lunging through the dark without another thought. His knife catches the starlight; the creature's eyes flash silver and green as it turns. The knife drives down into its furred chest, the sickening squelch of metal in flesh. The beast whips and writhes, nearly throwing Cas off. Its jaws snap, teeth frothed with blood. It had been human once; now it is damned. 

Its breath stinks of rotten meat as Cas leans down to look it in the face. "Where is it?" he growls. 

"Gone," the beast snarls in a voice like iron, "to a place you'll never find, and I will never say."

Cas believes it. He pulls a second knife from his jacket and stabs cursed thing in the throat. A gurgling scream of animal pain, and then nothing. Cas stands and wipes his blades on the creature's matted fur. He listens to the insects and the night birds call to each other across the desolate countryside. Only a moment ago, he had felt a familiar tug in the center of his being. Now he feels nothing. 

He drags the body to a shallow ditch, where a thin creek trickles through the gravel. The carcass should really be burned and the ashes spread, but there's no time. Cas's only option is to get back on the road as quickly as possible and hope he picks up the trail again.

As he races back toward the old rusted Ford, his hand slips into his inner jacket pocket to check his precious burden. The steel canteen is warm to the touch, beating with the heat of the stars; it's not the most fitting vessel, but it's all Cas could come up with on short notice. 

The Ford is sitting where he'd parked it, swerved sideways on a swath of pebbled shoulder, the driver's side door still open, keys in the ignition. Within seconds, he's back on the blacktop, hoping luck and the night will cover his tracks. 

After another fifty miles, Cas hasn't felt that sudden-drop feeling in his gut, and he decides he won't, not tonight. He turns off the road, drives a few hundred yards into an abandoned lot dotted with decomposing furniture and tin cans, and kills the engine. The headlights dim to nothing, and Cas sits for a minute in the pitch-dark cab before flicking on the overhead light. He reaches for his pack on the passenger seat and pulls out his journal. 

It's a flimsy set of lined pages held together with a spiral of metal on one side, something a child would use in school. Cas had seen it sitting unattended on a table at a roadside diner, brand new except for some numbers stenciled in the front five pages, gas mileage it looked like. Cas had taken it without hesitation. It seems important to leave a record of his journey, just in case. _In case he's killed._ The thought lingers like poison. 

Cas uncaps a motel pen and begins. _Dean: it's a little past midnight on October 13rd._

It never occurs to him _not_ to address his entries to Dean. It just seems natural. He continues to scribble in his imprecise, looping handwriting, his hands still unused to writing anything but Enochian script. 

_I'm about two hours west of Silverton, Colorado. Or perhaps I've crossed the state line already. It's difficult to say._

_Tonight I tracked the nagual across the forest and cornered it. I felt the call of my grace, I know I did. But it's as if it disappeared into thin air. Even when the beast was sure to die, it did not tell me what had become of it._

Cas had been hoping to find his grace in one piece, like Anna's, but there hadn't been time to prepare his celestial energies when he'd fallen. It had exploded across the continent like metal in a microwave, scattered like the pieces of Shiva.

There are twelve shards all told; Cas knows this like he knows how many arms he should have. He has only eight pieces now. The nagual had been carrying the ninth.

Cas reaches into his coat and touches the warm canteen, heated through with the eight shards of angelic grace. Cas can flip through his journal and relive the ways he'd found them over the past two months: the first shard, a piece of glassy obsidian, taken from a towering Slenderman after Cas sliced its head from its shoulders; the fat flake of gold retrieved from a tsi-noo in the hills of Okalahoma; the perfectly round pebble found in the jaws of the ancient reptile of Bear Lake. Monsters unconnected by history or geography. It makes no sense.

Cas shakes his head and writes: _Perhaps these creatures are drawn to my grace's power in the same way I am. How else can I explain why every time I find a new piece, there is a monster there to greet me? Or perhaps there is something else at work. You would not approve of me leaping so blindly into the fray, Dean, but I am so close to making my grace whole. I can't stop now._

Cas looks over the page as if some clue he's been missing will jump out at him, but nothing does. His grace had been there in that field and then it wasn't, and he doesn't understand how that could be. 

_I'm tired now, Dean, so I will go to sleep. The temperature has been dropping steadily. I hope you are warm, whatever you may be doing._

He replaces the journal in his bag and turns off the light. He runs a hand underneath his shirt, checking the scar tissue on his chest. The wound has healed well, leaving the sigil etched there in raised pink skin above his heart. The scars don't hurt anymore, but Cas finds himself wishing he could take better care of this body. It's the only one he has now. 

The bench seat is lumpy and the seat buckles are uncomfortable to lay on, but Cas manages. He curls onto his side and waits for sleep to come, watching the stars blink through the streaked windshield. 

______________

Dean is resolutely not looking up from the computer screen. He is not going to meet his brother's Labrador gaze. He is going to sit there and do his goddamn research and act like he can't feel the weight of that heavy stare.

"Talk to me, Dean," Sam says from his seat across the ratty desk, unblinking. Dean grunts. Sam licks his lips. "I can tell you're frustrated."

"Oh! You can, huh? Jesus Christ in a rowboat, Sam, you must be fucking psychic!" Dean does lift his eyes then, if only to widen them comically at his brother for a moment. His face drops back into a blank mask and he returns his focus to his laptop. "Bitch."

Sam sighs through his nose and tries a different tack. "Why don't you take a break? You've been sitting at that computer all day."

"Yeah, trying to find us a case," Dean grumbles. "Someone's got to get us back to work."

There's a beat of silence before Sam says, "You're not looking for a case, Dean. You're looking for him."

Dean's shoulders go rigid, but that's his only tell. He keeps his voice even, still not looking up. "Go away, Sam." He picks up the glass tumbler at his elbow and sips at the amber-glow whiskey, pointedly ignoring his brother.

Sam shakes his head, hoists himself to his feet, and climbs up the stairs to the guest bedroom. Dean won't sleep in it anymore, not since Cas left. Barely sleeps at all, actually, and when he does, it's at the desk in front of the humming laptop or stretched out on the ancient sofa. Sam would like to stop worrying about his older brother, but it's kind of hard to ignore the piercing, stinging shards of _loneliness-betrayal-fear-are-you-fucking-serious_ that are coming off Dean in waves. Sam wishes he could do something, but the only person who can help vanished into thin air two months ago.

Sam is about to sit down on the bed, maybe practice levitating the furniture, when another, newer emotion creeps in: it's not his, and Bobby's gone hunting, so it must be coming from Dean. This feeling's different than the others. It's full of energy, of purpose. Sam glances out the bedroom window, sees a dark shape weaving through the junkyard. A minute later, Sam thunders down the stairs as fast as he can.

He reaches the Impala just before Dean can turn the key in the ignition. His hand slams down on the driver's side roof. Dean startles, then sighs in consternation at seeing it's only Sam.

"Give me a heart attack, why don't you?"

"What the hell, Dean? Now you're leaving too?" Sam barks. He doesn't mean to sound as upset as he does, but he's all jittery and high on the excess emotions Dean's projecting.

Dean drops his chin to his chest. Sam can see the wall going up around him. All his little defenses. It's as real as brick.

"You ain't stopping me," Dean says lowly.

"Who said anything about stopping you?" Sam says. He lifts a hand, holding up the backpack he's carrying, stuffed with spare clothes. Dean's eyes widen a little in surprise, or maybe chagrin.

Dean swallows and leans across the front seat to unlock the passenger door. He jerks his head to the side. "Get in."

Only when they're on the road does Sam ask where they're going.

"Colorado. Some shithole called Dove Creek," Dean says. "Locals found something dead in a ditch. The authorities are saying it's a decomposing juvenile bear. With big ears." He raises his eyebrows and quirks his lips to show just how much he values the opinion of the authorities. 

"Sounds like a nagual."

Dean nods. "Yep, and guess what some witness saw speeding away from the scene last night? A beat-up white Ford pickup, South Dakota plates."

"Cas?"

"Hope so," Dean mutters. Rain starts pattering down, running in long stripes across the windshield. Dean flicks on the wipers with a sigh. "I goddamn hope so."

______________

Cas guides the rusted Ford down a winding country road, not a painted line in sight. Outside the passenger window, the brown-green mountains pass by slowly, the sun dipping low between their peaks. Cas props a knee against the shiny underside of the steering wheel and uses the opportunity to stretch his arms up, shoulders popping, palms flat on the truck's liner. His back's been aching ever since he fell down a flight of stairs in Alabama while chasing a banshee. The bruises are mostly faded, but the pain remains. 

He's been driving all day, first south, then north. The low buzzing in his stomach has fallen to a muted beat both times, and turning around has gotten him lost more times than he can count. It's not the most efficient way to track down the next piece of grace, but it's the only one he knows. Now the Ford is pointed at Utah and something in Cas's belly roils in anticipation. 

He stops for a brief lunch at a diner, taking the time to write one line in his journal as he wolfs down a pastrami on rye: _Dean: I'm going west to number nine._ Cas leaves the counter girl two twenties, money he'd found in the tattered pocket of a skunk ape in Florida. He's out the door before she can say anything. He keeps driving.

After an hour, the indicator begins to hover over the E again, and Cas pulls the creaking truck into the first gas station that appears on the side of the road. He inserts his stolen credit card into the pump and punches in Bobby Singer's zip code. Cas had memorized it while shuffling through Bobby's mail during his brief convalescence at the salvage yard. Training with his garrison had taught him not to ignore details, and Cas is pleased he hasn't lost that skill along with his grace. He nods to himself and looks around the gas station as he waits for the tank to fill. 

The parking lot is empty save for a white panel van one pump over. Two men step out of the front seats and into the twilight, two very familiar men.

The taller one has a thin, aquiline nose and dirty blue eyes the color of old china. The other one has a beard, rough and dark, and rubs his hands against the tops of his thighs in a nervous gesture, as if trying to get blood off his palms. Though Cas has never met them face-to-face, he knows exactly who they are.

Walt Gold and Roy Anderson: two hunters who, once upon a time, had murdered Sam and Dean in their beds.

______________

Sam lays back in the passenger seat and dreams about a hotel room with some bizarre bison theme. Swatches of shag carpet are stapled to the walls in a parody of animal skins. The carpet smells like turpentine, and the beds sag in the middle from years of wear. 

Dean wakes him up as they're pulling into a hotel parking lot. Sam rubs his sleep-crusted eyes with the back of his palm as they haul themselves and their gear into their rented room. He looks around and is disturbed to see the room he'd dreamt about, right down to the arrowhead-shaped ashtrays. He stands there motionless, wondering if this is one of those psychic things he should mention, or if he's just going nuts. 

Dean is already settling in on his bed, the one closest to the door. "We'll get to Dove Creek tomorrow," he says, taking apart his nickel-plated gun for cleaning. "Take 76 to 70, try to make up some time. You should call Bobby in the morning and tell him where we are."

Sam nods, considering. Dean rarely takes the interstate, preferring to keep the Impala on the back roads where its strange hulking shape is less likely to catch the eye of a state trooper. Dean's not just in a hurry, he's in a panic.

"I'm sure Cas is okay," Sam says gently. He's trying to be reassuring, but when Dean looks up at him, he can see it isn't having the desired effect.

"How can you know that?" Dean bites out. "The guy can't even shoot the broad side of a barn! What makes you think he's hunky dory out there on his own?" His eyes narrow at Sam. "Unless...can you feel him? With your, uh, mental thingy?"

Sam sits on the opposite bed, cracking his sore back. "I told you, it's an empathic ability."

"Whatever. Is it still tuned to Cas?" This is the most hopeful Dean's face has looked in days. Sam hates himself for it.

"Not exactly. It doesn't pick up people that far away," he says. Dean closes himself off again, dropping his gaze back to his gun in disgust. Sam doesn't give up, though. "But I think if Cas was in trouble, I'd know somehow."

"Oh. Great. You'd know _somehow_."

Sam hesitates, his mouth working out the words before he speaks them. "Remember when I had those dreams that showed me the future?"

Dean stops his gun cleaning completely now, setting it aside to stare at his brother, clasping his hands between his knees. "You've seen Cas in your dreams?"

"No. But I saw this weird-ass hotel room." He gestures to the fake animal skins on the wall. "I know we're supposed to be here, on Cas's trail. And I think the closer we get, the more I'll see."

Dean mulls this over, his eyebrows working up and down. "All right," he finally says, accepting his brother's theory. "Then you better get some sleep. And tell me the second you dream of anything else." He stabs a finger in Sam's direction.

"Yeah, of course." Sam can't help but goad him just a little. "So I guess, in this one single instance, you're cool with me using my powers, huh?"

Dean's glare is sharp, his lip curling in a snarl. "Don't even start. I still think this entire thing is messed up, and I'm still pissed at you for keeping it from me."

"Sure, Dean, because it's not like you didn't try to hide some huge, life-changing information from _me_ lately," Sam says.

Dean rears back a little at that, his mouth set into a grim line. "That was none of your business, Sammy."

"Are you kidding me? You and Cas are, like, ninety-five percent of my total business! We live together, we travel together, we work together--"

"You had no right--"

"I don't care, Dean!" Sam shouts over him. "I don't care if you're gay! Jesus."

Dean shifts on his thin mattress, not meeting his brother's eyes. "It's not like that."

"Bisexual, whatever."

Dean clicks his tongue, frustrated. "Nah, I'm not--" He groans and scrubs a hand over his tired face. "This is why I don't want to talk about this shit with you. You make it sound like I'm some closet case who's been holding back his whole miserable life."

"And you're not?" Sam counters.

"Fucking hell, Sammy, you think I've been faking it all this time? I've loved every minute I was with a woman. I still think about Lisa and I wish--" He swallows, hard, twice, his pointer finger shaking in the air as he collects his words. "I'd never once thought of a guy that way. Lisa was what I always thought I wanted."

"So what's Cas then?" Sam asks quietly.

Dean runs a hand through his hair. "A big fucking surprise."

They sit there in silence for a long moment on opposite beds. Sam clears his throat and clasps his hands between his knees, staring down at them. "Just so you know, you'll always be my brother. No matter what."

"Yeah. I know." Dean's voice is rough. He shoots Sam a small smile, a ghost of his former grin. "Can we try to get through this without any more heartfelt moments?"

Sam agrees unconditionally.

______________

Cas steps into the gas station store, a brass bell tinkling on the door as he walks through it. A tinny rendition of a blues song is playing over the loudspeakers. The lady at the cash register doesn't turn to look at him, and neither do Roy and Walt. They're huddled over by the wall of coolers, staring at bottles of soft drinks and malt beverages and energy cocktails. Cas can hear their low whispers as he walks down the aisle behind them, ostensibly glancing at the bags of corn chips. 

"I say we stop for the night, catch up in the morning," Roy says in a low, pleading voice. 

Walt grunts in reply. "I don't want to fall too far back. That witch was on a roll in Austin; I don't like the way she just packed up and skedaddled before we even made a move."

"Think she knows we're on her trail?" 

"Course not. Bitch would magic our balls right down our throats if she knew." A pause. "Get me a root beer, will you? The good kind, not that shitty kind you got last time."

Cas leans back against a shelf of Pringles and considers their words. If this witch is heading in the same direction as he is, he thinks it likely that she is also after the ninth shard. He needs more information to be sure, however, and Cas does not relish the idea of asking Roy and Walt for their assistance. They were cowardly enough to shoot Dean and Sam in their beds; they might turn on Cas as well if they knew the danger he posed. But it sounds like they have been tracking this witch for some time, and they will have an idea of the extent of her power, something Cas needs to know. 

As Roy and Walt amble down the aisle, Cas steps in front of them before they can reach the cash register. "Excuse me," he says, "but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation."

Both men's hands go behind their backs, reaching for pistols in their waistbands, no doubt. Cas slowly raises his hands, a sign of peace, eyeing their movements with a raised eyebrow. He can see the cashier in the round convex mirror in the corner, still snapping her gum and reading her glossy magazine.

"I believe we're on the same kind of hunting trip," Cas says. "You're heading west, correct?" 

Roy and Walt relax slightly, their hands dropping. The sodas are purchased without another word, and Cas follows them out of the store when Walt beckons him with a tilt of his head. 

"Who the hell are you and how do you know where we're headed?" he asks Cas once they're outside. 

"You may call me Cas. And I know where you're headed because I'm going that way too," Cas says. "That witch stole something of mine. I will go with you and help you defeat her, but you must promise to let me have my property when she is dead."

"And what makes you think we want to team up with some skinny-ass punk who we don't know from goddamned Adam?" Walt scoffs.

"Because I know the counter-spells to a dozen different hexes; I can draw sigils that stop black magic from even forming in the air; I've watched a hundred witches burn since I began hunting, and if this witch is half as powerful as I think she might be, you're going to need a skinny-ass punk who knows what the fuck he's talking about." Cas takes a deep breath and watches their slack faces for a reaction. His outburst may have been more bravado than truth, and it might have been channeled directly from Dean Winchester, but despite his current human state, Cas has witnessed thousands of years of earth's history. He may not have the strength he once possessed, but he still has the knowledge. He only hopes Roy and Walt believe him when he says he can put it to good use. 

Walt nods slowly. "All right," he says, "you can come along. But you're driving your own vehicle and sleeping in your own motel room, and if I find out you're working for this bitch--"

Cas cocks his head. "You'll kill me in my sleep?" Roy and Walt stare at him, jaws ticking. Cas straightens his neck. "Fair enough. Let's move."

______________

Sam dreams of the summer camp he went to in second grade. It was only for a couple weeks, just to get out of his dad's hair during a long hunt in Georgia, but Sam's memories of it are vivid. He flops into the sweet-smelling grass, his jeans going green at the knees, and fits a long piece of tin foil over his cardboard contraption.

 _The sun will run our ovens for us_ , the teacher says, her smile gentle and firm. _Who wants to cook a hotdog?_

 _Me, me, me_ , Sam cries alongside a dozen other children. The sunlight is in his eyes, and there's birdsong in his ears, and the smell of burning meat is in the air. For a moment he remembers how burning flesh smelled in hell, and he shuts his eyes against the memory. When he opens his eyes, he's outside a gas station in the gathering dark. The faded posters on the storefront read _Welcome to Colorado! Stay for a Spell._

He sees Cas cross the asphalt in front of him. Two huge black wings spread out from his back, trailing in the gravel. He carries a knife in each hand, his eyes glowing an eerie blue.

The dream continues in flashes, and Sam desperately tries to cling to all the details he can see: a white van with Nebraska plates, two men in raggedy denim jackets; he can't make out their faces. A warm swamp, alive with bugs, where something smells worse than death. A note written in Cas's crabbed style: _Dean: I'm going west to number nine._

Flash forward to a desert somewhere else. The sand in the wind stings his eyes, but Sam peers out across the empty stretch of land to see a cross standing on the top of a naked hillock. A woman stands in front of it, her back to him. Her hair is red like Anna's had been, but she's not Anna. Sam doesn't know how he knows; it's the certainty that comes with dreams. 

Another flash, and Sam's back indoors, watching Dean and Cas embrace, then pull apart to stare at each other. Dean kisses Cas with his entire body, his hands clasping over Cas's ears, his chest shoving into Cas's space, his hips crowding him against the wall. He's never seen Dean kiss anyone like that. Sam knows he should look away; it's too private. He turns to go.

She's waiting right behind him, the woman with the red hair. Her face is erased, just a blank slate of nothing, but her voice comes from the air around them. "Wakey, wakey, Winchester." 

Sam jerks awake, sitting bolt upright in bed. He takes a moment to get the air back into his lungs, and then he's over on Dean's bed, shaking his brother awake.

"I know where he is," Sam says.

"Bwah? Wha--?" Dean puts up his hands in feeble defense, his eyes opening by slow degrees. "What do you mean?"

"Cas. He's here, he's just ahead of us, still in Colorado. We can catch up to him."

Dean sits up, grabbing for the tee shirt that's discarded at the foot of his bed and shrugging into it. The last vestiges of sleep are leaving his face. "Where?"

Sam shakes his head. "I only get these weird glimpses. Sometimes they're not literally true. But I saw a note Cas had written for you. West to number nine, it said. Is there a Highway 9 west of here?"

"There's a Highway 9, but you don't get to it by going west from Dove Creek," Dean grunts, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and reaching for his boots. "And if it were a highway, Cas would have said that. He's got that whole precision thing going on, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess so." Sam mulls this over, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "What did he mean by number nine, then?"

"Don't know. Don't care. If he's going west, then so are we." Dean's shoulder slump as his finishes tying his laces. He sits there, hunched over on the edge of his limp mattress, a sigh shuddering through him. "Needle in a fucking haystack," he whispers. 

"We'll find him, Dean." Sam swallows. "In my dream, you-- Don't worry, we'll find him."

Sam considers telling Dean about the kiss he saw, how wonderful their reunion will be when it finally happens, but he holds his tongue. Dean's worried enough without knowing his little brother watched him make out with his boyfriend on the metaphysical plain.

______________

The white panel van pulls into the pothole-riddled parking lot of Peak's Motel, and Cas has no choice but to follow. He would prefer sleeping in the truck to one of these mildewed motels, but Roy and Walt seem to gravitate toward them, much like the Winchesters. Perhaps it's a hunter tradition that Cas does not yet understand. Or maybe the small comforts of four walls and running water, no matter how foul, are enough. 

Cas secures his own room as promised, but the three men gather in Roy and Walt's shared room to discuss their quarry. Roy spreads a map across the scarred tabletop in front of the window, and Walt traces a line with his finger across the badge shape of Texas. 

"We heard some reports of weird phenomena here, outside the Austin area. Lights in the sky, raining frogs, that sort of thing. Normally we wouldn't bother checking out that kind of shit, but then it took an interesting turn."

Roy gives a grimace. "Kids started disappearing. Like, a lot of kids." 

"Do you know what witches do with dead kids?" Walt asks. "Seems like there's a spell for every part of 'em. Like a fucking buffalo or something."

Cas doesn't understand how a child is like a hoofed herd animal, and he doesn't want to know. "What was this witch doing with them?"

"We found where she stashed the bodies," Roy said. "She took their tongues and teeth. Don't know what for yet, still working on that." 

Cas blinks. "I think I know." The tongues and teeth of children: necessary ingredients for the oldest kind of binding spells. "She's casting enslavement curses." Roy and Walt shift uncomfortably in their rickety chairs, throwing glances at each other. Cas shakes his head. "Not on humans. Those spells don't require this much," he searches for a word, "sacrifice." 

"Well, who's she cursing, then?" Walt snaps. 

The skunk ape in the swamp. The banshee in Alabama. The lake monster and the tsi-noo and the Slenderman. All the inhuman things that creep through the shadows. 

Not that Roy and Walt need to know that. Not yet, anyway. 

"Who knows," Cas says with a shrug. "Then what happened?"

"Then we followed the evidence back to the bitch. Oh, she's got herself a sweet setup, nice big house, couple of cars, fancy shoes. Calls herself Cindy Thomas." Walt spreads some photographs on the table, the kind taken from a long distance. A woman with red hair is in each photo, buying coffee, driving through traffic, sticking a ceremonial knife into a little boy. "We tailed her for a couple days to make sure we had the right mark. Knew we were on track when she scooped up another kid."

"We tried to stop her, you know," Roy bleats, "but she had some strong magic, like you wouldn't believe. She torched a whole forest right in front of our eyes. No way could we go after her without a plan. Right?"

Cas narrows his eyes at the hunter. He won't absolve them; no one can. But he's not going to judge them. That's not his job, not anymore. 

"When did she leave town?" he asks instead.

"That's the funny thing," Walt says. "She was in the middle of some ritual in her back garden; we were watching her from a distance, trying to get an idea of what she was up to. Then all of a sudden she gets a call on her cell. She's on the phone for just a few seconds, doesn't say a word after the first hello. Then she's packing up and getting in her car, the sensible one with the good gas mileage, and she starts driving like a bat out of hell." 

"And where is she now?" Cas asks. He wonders why they're sitting here in this awful motel room, wasting time. "Did you lose her?"

"Nah, man, we might not have magic," Roy says with a grin, "but we've got GPS." He digs around in his canvas bag and pulls out a small black device with a dusty screen. A green dot is sitting in the upper left hand quadrant, completely still. "Dip a tracker in holy water, it's amazing what it'll stick to."

______________

Sam is dozing in the passenger seat, snoring lightly. Dean drives as fast as he dares down the empty highway. It's pitch dark out here in the middle of nowhere, no lights, just road signs every few dozen miles. It's so quiet. Dean is considering turning on the stereo when Sam jolts upright in his seat shouting "Cas!" 

"Jesus Christ!" The Impala fishtails on the asphalt. Dean jerks the wheel and rights the car as quickly as possible. "You okay? What the fuck was that?" Dean switches his gaze between the road and his brother. 

"I'm fine. Just had another dream." Sam points to the road up ahead. "The motel on the left. That's where Cas is," Sam pants, swallowing hard to get his breathing back under control. "Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you."

Dean makes a noise like a cymbal, _pssssh_. "I wasn't scared."

"Yeah you were."

"No I wasn't." A red and green neon sign appears over the ridge, two mountains outlined in light. "This the one? Peak's?" 

Sam nods, and Dean takes the turn. They pull into an empty space next to Bobby's Ford. Dean nods at it and rambles on. "Okay, he's got to be here somewhere. I'll go to the front desk, flash a badge, tell the motel guy we're looking for someone fitting Cas's description, then when we get his room number we'll--"

"It's room four," Sam interrupts, pointing at the door down the open hallway. 

Dean stares at him. 

Sam stares back. "What? Room four. I can feel him in there."

"That easy, huh?"

"Not a lot of people wear their emotions on their sleeve like Cas does," Sam says. "He hasn't learned to tamp them down yet." 

Dean pulls a face and swings his door open. "Fine. Let's go." 

"Uh, I think I'll grab a soda first," Sam stammers as he exits the car. He backs away toward a faded Pepsi machine at the corner of the parking lot, his hands raised defensively. "Why don't you just, erm, take all the time you need, all right?"

"Sure. Weirdo." Dean watches Sam takes off, then faces the door to room number four. He smooths his hands down the front of his shirt; it's wrinkled from the long day's drive, but there's not a lot he can do about that. He lifts a fist and knocks twice. 

"Cas?" he calls through the door. 

For a long moment, nothing happens. And then the door creaks open and Dean is looking at him. It takes an instant to catalog all the tiny changes in Cas's face: a little more stubble than the last time he saw him, a few more shadows under his surprise-widened eyes. But god, those eyes. They're as bright as they ever were. Dean's breath hitches as their gazes meet and hold. 

"Dean?" Cas whispers. "What are you doing here?" 

Dean can feel his throat working. He'd had a nice little speech all ready to go, the perfect thing for this moment, full of accusations and derision and the best fuck-yous he could think of. But standing there outside that motel room, seeing Cas in the flesh after so many days, Dean can't say any of it. 

He pushes his way into the room, slamming the door shut behind him. He grabs Cas by the shoulders and holds him out at arm's length, just looking him over. He's wearing one of the tee shirts Dean had lent him all those months ago, the faded Black Sabbath logo stretched across his chest. His jacket is from Dean too, the olive green canvas one. His jeans are full of new rips at the knees, and he's barefoot, something Dean wouldn't advise at a motel of this caliber, but it's not up to him. 

"Dean." 

Dean's eyes snap back up to Cas's face. He's watching Dean closely, holding onto his wrists as tightly as Dean's holding onto him. There's something else in his face that's different, something Dean's never seen on him before. It reminds him of his own reflection in the mirror most mornings: that look of regret. 

It doesn't belong there, Dean is sure of it. He crushes Cas to him, holding him against his chest so he can feel him breathing. His lips find the rim of Cas's ear, trail over it with the intent of saying something reassuring. But Dean can't find it in him to say any of that either. 

Cas pulls back to look at him, a long stare, his lips parted. Dean watches his mouth for a moment, waiting for him to speak. But Cas doesn't say anything either, and Dean can't take it any longer. He pushes him back against the wall and kisses him and _kisses_ him and holds his face to feel the shape of his skull and the scrape of his stubble. Cas moans into his mouth, a low, broken whine. Dean pulls away and pants against Cas's mouth.

"You got no idea how bad I want to scream at you and curse you up and down for leaving, you son of a bitch," he says. 

"I'm sorry, I--"

Dean cuts him off with another bruising kiss, ending it with a lick along his bottom lip. "No. We can piss each other off tomorrow. We can have it all out then. Tonight--fucking hell, Cas--tonight I'm just goddamned happy you're alive. That you're okay." Dean's hands shake along Cas's jawline, and his breaths are coming too fast. "You're okay, right?"

Cas places his hands over Dean's to still them. "Yes. And you?"

"Oh, just peachy." 

They stand there, trembling against each other in the shadowed edge of the motel room, the smell of stale cigarettes in the air. Dean huffs a rueful laugh and leans his forehead down, settling it against Cas's shoulder. Cas brings a hand up to cup the back of his head, combing through the thick hair there. 

"Dean, there's something you should know," he says against Dean's neck.

Dean doesn't move. "Tomorrow," he insists. "We'll talk then."

A door slams nearby. Dean hears Cas's sharp intake of breath. "No, you should hear this now. It's--"

Someone starts hammering away at the door. "Cas! Cas, we've got to get a move on. There's a car here we've been trying to avoid," a voice shouts. 

Dean's brow furrows. "What the hell?" He pulls away from Cas. "Now where have I heard that voice before?" he murmurs. 

"Dean, don't." Cas reaches out to grab his arm, but Dean shakes him off and heads for the door. 

To say Walt is shocked to see Dean open the door is an understatement. His eyes bug out of his head and his mouth drops open like a cartoon. "Y-you!"

Dean is surprised too, but he recovers quickly. "Yeah. Me." Dean reaches for the .45 in the waistband at the small of his back and has it trained on Walt's nose before he can blink. 

"Walt, come on, let's get--" Roy pops into view and goes just as still behind his partner, his hands in the air. "Aw shit." 

Dean gestures at the bed with the barrel of his gun. "Come on, assholes. I think Cas has some explaining to do." He shoots a glare at Cas, who is pointedly not looking up from the floor.

Roy and Walt comply, shuffling into the room and sitting on the edge of the motel bed with their hands up for Dean to see. Out of the corner of one eye, Dean sees Sam strolling along the far side of the parking lot, obliviously sipping at a green can of ginger ale. 

"Sam!" he calls through the open door. "You might want to get in here."

"No, I don't think I do!" his idiot brother calls back. 

"We got company! Come and say hi." 

Sam comes into the room and Dean shuts the door behind him. Sam surveys the scene, his face scrunched in confusion. "You have got to be kidding me." He throws his empty soda can in the trash, where it bangs around like a pinball.

Walt turns his attention to Cas, practically spitting with fury. "You're working for the goddamned Winchester brothers!?"

"Oh god, oh lord," Roy whimpers to himself, rocking back and forth on the mattress. "He's going to blow our fucking heads off."

"I will if you don't shut up," Dean snaps. "Cas," he throws over his shoulder, "what the hell is going on?"

Cas doesn't look up, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. "They had information I needed. About the witch."

"Witch?" Sam frowns. 

"The witch who is after the ninth piece of my grace."

"Whoa, wait, ninth piece?" Dean barks. "What's it doing in nine pieces?"

"Twelve pieces, actually. I need to recover them all before my grace can be made manifest again," Cas says. 

"Like the seashells in Legend of Zelda?" Sam asks.

"Dude," Dean scoffs, narrowing his eyes at Sam, "what is wrong with you? _Zelda_?"

"What? I'm just trying to understand!"

Dean ignores his brother, his eyes and weapon still trained on Roy and Walt. "So what happened to the 'I need to do this alone' crap, Cas? You can't find your angel mojo with me and Sam, but you hook up with these two douchebags?"

"Wait a minute, you're an angel?" Walt blanches. "Holy hell."

"Ex-angel," Cas says patiently. "And I told you, Dean, they know the witch I'm after. I wouldn't have involved them or you or anyone unless I had to."

"Maybe it slipped your mind, Cas, but these are the guys who murdered me and Sam! And you're just hanging out with them like it's one big slumber party!" Dean shouts. His fingers tighten on the gun, and Roy backs up on the bed, his feet tucked underneath him. 

"Just calm down, okay, Winchester?" he says, his hands held in front of him. "I'm sorry about what we did, honest, but we didn't think we had a choice." 

"To be fair," Sam says to Dean, "we were kind of responsible for nearly starting the apocalypse." 

Dean rolls his eyes in disbelief. "Am I the only one who remembers getting blasted with a fucking shotgun!?" 

Sam sighs. "Of course not. I'm just saying, we've all done things we're not proud of, right?" 

The room quiets down at that, and five men share flickering gazes amongst themselves. Dean purses his lips and shakes his head like he can't believe what's happening. 

Sam moves closer and raises his hand. "You can put the gun down, Dean. I've got them, they're not moving." Roy and Walt look a little surprised at being held immobile by a telekinetic force, but given the events of the entire day, it's not the weirdest thing that's happened, not by a long shot. 

Dean shoots Sam a glare, and Sam shakes his head. "No, I'm not using any mojo on you. I'm not going to force you to do anything, I promise. I'm just asking you, put down the gun." 

Dean lowers the .45 and turns to Cas, his whole stance radiating suppressed anger. "Start from the beginning. You're going to tell me everything you've been doing for the past two months."

______________

It's after two a.m. by the time Cas is done recounting his travels to Dean. They're alone in Cas's motel room; Sam has moved Roy and Walt to their own room and put them into a kind of trance. Sam had left with a grudging stare, an unspoken warning to his brother to not blow up. 

That was hours ago. Now Dean is fighting to keep his eyes open. He looks down at Cas, who is seated on the edge of the bed where Roy and Walt had been. Dean doesn't sit; he paces back and forth across the threadbare carpet. 

"So let me see if I got this straight. Your mojo is in pieces, so you go on a cross-country hunt and take down a Who's Who of monsters single-handed. Then you start trailing an all-powerful witch named Cindy, who's been yanking the dental work out of little boys and girls and using it to enchant the uglies into sniffing out your grace. She's on the move but no one knows where to exactly or why. And all we got to go on is some mysterious phone call that made her hop to, and, oh yeah, you teamed up with the same guys who killed me dead."

Cas gives a slight shrug. "You can take revenge on Roy and Walt if it will make you feel better, Dean; I can't stop you. But I'm asking you to refrain for the moment. I need their help to complete my grace."

"And it never occurred to you to put a quarter in a payphone and call _me_ for help?" Dean growls. 

Cas looks up, his eyes heavy with tiredness. "There was not a moment these last eight weeks when I didn't wish to hear your voice or see your face, Dean. Please do not doubt that."

"Then why? Why the radio silence? Why slink away in the middle of the night without even saying goodbye?"

"I left a note."

Dean groans, a sound of pure frustration, and tugs his fingers through his hair. "I swear to god, I'm going to strangle you." 

"Dean." Cas stands up and reaches out, but then thinks better of it and curls his hand loosely at his side. "I'm sorry. But I couldn't ask you to do this with me. For one, the danger may prove very great."

"That's the job, Cas! It's dangerous, it never lets up. When are you going to learn that's what family is fucking for!?" Dean shouts. His raises his hands as if he's about to push against Cas's chest, but then thinks better of it and drops his fists to his sides. "You still think you can do everything on your own, that's it's all on your shoulders! Well, guess what? It ended up pretty shitty the last time you went off to do your own thing. Or have you forgotten the whole Purgatory binge and purge?"

Cas colors, a red flush creeping up his neck to his cheeks. "I do remember, and I am aware of my own limitations. Which made this decision all the more difficult." He swallows and looks down at the floor. "I also left because I needed to be on my own. I've fallen. I am mortal. And if I can't recover my grace, I must learn what it means to be human."

"But I can help you with that, Cas," Dean says, gesturing between their two chests as if indicating where their humanity lies. "I thought that's what we were doing. Together." 

Cas shakes his head, his face gone pinched and sad. He struggles to find the words he needs to say. "If you are the only one to teach me about humanity, Dean, then I run the risk of becoming you."

"And what's so bad about being me?" Dean asks. "Besides the getting killed every so often thing." His tone is wry, but Cas's answering gaze is dead serious. 

"You still think you don't deserve to be loved, even after all this time. And I can't believe that of you," Cas says. "I love you too much to believe that."

Dean takes a step back as if those words were a physical blow he wasn't expecting. His eyes are so green, even rimmed in the redness of exhaustion. His mouth is open, but he says nothing.

Cas stands up slowly, advancing with the same caution reserved for wild animals. "Things were very different when I first fell," he says quietly. "I needed to rely on someone for my everyday survival, and you excel at being relied upon. I may not _need_ you now, but Dean," he lifts a hand and presses it flat against Dean's pounding heart, "I do want you."

There is a long moment when nothing moves or makes a sound. Dean does not say a word, does not move a muscle in his face. Cas drops his hand and turns to dig through his gear bag on the bed, fighting to keep his hands from shaking. "I--I have to get ready for tomorrow. This morning, I mean. The witch could move at any moment and--"

"Did I ever tell you about twenty-fourteen?" Dean asks. His voice rings out startlingly clear in the small room. Cas nearly jumps out of his skin. He turns to find Dean nervously massaging the palm of his right hand. "The year 2014," Dean clarifies. "The future Zachariah sent me to see."

Cas thinks back, trying to remember. "I know there was a Croatoan outbreak in that timeline. The world was overrun. Lucifer walked the earth."

"Yeah. And you were human. Fallen." Dean looks at him and swallows. "And I was the asshole who got you killed in the end. I sent you to die like a fucking dog, Cas." 

Cas takes a step forward. "Sam and I stopped the virus. That future shall never come to pass." 

"How can you be so sure?" Dean asks. His eyes are wild and shining. "What if you never get your grace back? What if Sam turns into a total headcase and Lucifer gets out of the cage again? What if this is the moment where it all goes to hell?"

"It isn't," Cas insists. 

"How do you know?"

Cas lays a hand on Dean's shoulder, the one that carries the scars, and kisses him softly on the lips. "When you first walked into this room, it was enough that I was alive," Cas murmurs. "You forgave me once, Dean, for the awful things I've done. Perhaps I don't deserve it, but can you forgive me for this?"

"What you did, taking off like that," Dean says slowly, "it wasn't 'end of the world' bad, but it-- Cas, when I woke up and saw you were gone, I--" He draws a shaky breath. "Damn it, Cas, you're always trying to do the right thing in the wrong way."

Cas feels the liquid-hot sensation of tears building up behind his eyes. He's cried before, from physical injury, but never from witnessing someone else's pain. It's somehow worse than any of the guilt he's ever carried, because now he understands: Dean had trusted him to be there in the morning and he couldn't even manage that. "I'm so sorry," he whispers. "Dean, I'm so--"

Dean kisses him, as hard and desperate as the first kiss they shared that night. "Don't you ever do that to me again," he hisses when they part.

"I won't," Cas promises. "I won't be able to."

They fall on the bed, making a mess of Cas's supplies. A can of salt is digging into Cas's side, but he doesn't care. He nearly sobs at the feel of Dean's body stretched out beneath him. It's been too long since he's felt this electric warmth that builds when he's with Dean. They kiss again, and Cas fears the dizziness will cloud his mind. 

"It's okay," Dean says, his voice a quiet rumble against Cas's skin. "It's all right, shh, don't cry." His strong thumbs swipe at Cas's face, and Cas belatedly realizes the tears have started to fall. 

He looks down into Dean's bright eyes, brimming with impossible love, and he can't even speak to say how amazed he is by this strange man, how honored he is to be with him in all ways. 

He's still trying to find the words when the room explodes in a cloud of brimstone. 

Cas chokes, blinking through the haze, turning toward the menace and shielding Dean out of pure instinct. He hears an unfamiliar voice floating through the destruction: "Wingless angel, you are mine." He looks up through the smoke to see the misty shape of a woman's body, her red hair as bright as the flames that dance at her feet. Cas sets his teeth in a growl. So the witch has come to him. 

A snake-quick hand slashes through the dust to grip at the collar of Cas's jacket. Cas lurches forward. He's being pulled away from Dean, his hand passing through Dean's scrabbling fingers. 

"Dean!" Cas reaches out for him, but the witch is as strong as the ancient giants. Her arms close around him like iron. 

"Cas! Let him go, you motherfucking bitch!" Dean shouts.

The last thing Cas sees before disappearing in the middle of a seven-pointed star is Dean's face masked in rage. Blinding light knifes through his vision, then nothing.

______________

Sam paces along the dark parking lot, trying to ignore the roller-coaster roil of emotions that emanate from room four. He punches a button on his Blackberry and is glad to hear Bobby answer on the first ring.

"Did you find him?" Bobby asks without even saying hello.

"Yeah, we got Cas. But we've got bigger problems now." Sam presses the phone between his shoulder and ear so he can flip through the spiral-bound notebook he'd found on Cas's bedside table. He'd felt a little guilty about pocketing it once he saw it was clearly a journal, but he's decided he'd feel more guilty probing into Cas's mind for the updates he needs. He tells Bobby the whole story about Cas's grace, the witch, Roy and Walt ("Those numbnuts are still alive?" Bobby exclaims), and all the rest. 

"Wait a minute, don't you know where the witch is going?" Bobby interjects at the end of Sam's debriefing. 

"Well, west, I guess, but we don't know exactly--"

"She's heading for Home of Truth, moron. I'd bet my bottom dollar," Bobby says.

"Home of Truth? What the hell is that?" Sam frowns and pencils it in the margin of the notebook.

"An abandoned town in southern Utah. Used to be run by Jesus nutsos around the turn of the century. Said if they prayed hard enough, they could raise the dead." Bobby lets his incredulity seep into his tone. "After the bible-thumpers cleared out, the place became a sort of Woodstock for witchcraft. They think it's got some kind of occult power attached to it."

"Does it?" Sam asks. 

"Who the hell knows. These bitches are crazy. But I promise you, when an old-school witch wants to conjure up something big west of the Mississippi, that's where she'll do it." 

"Great, so we just have to--" An explosion rocks through the motel, cutting Sam off. Car alarms start to blare and whoop in the parking lot, and Sam clutches at his ringing ears for a long moment, trying to get his bearings. He looks up and watches in horror as the picture window in room four is lit up like a jack o' lantern, the second explosion shattering it into a million pieces. He runs as fast as his feet can carry him, Bobby's tinny voice shouting unanswered questions from the phone still clutched in his hand.

By the time Sam gets inside, room four is a burned-out husk more closely resembling a war zone than a motel. He steps over a charred table leg and onto the smoking carpet. "Dean!" he calls. 

A pile of blackened rubble groans and shifts, and in a moment Dean is on his feet, swaying and sooty, but alive. Sam rushes to his left side, one hand pressing his Blackberry flat against Dean's chest to keep him upright. There's a lot of blood on Dean's clothes and a lot of smoke in the air.

"Dean! What--?"

"She took Cas," Dean mumbles through cracked and bleeding lips. "She fucking took Cas."

"Who did?" Bobby shouts through Sam's cell phone. 

"The redheaded witch?" Sam asks. 

Dean nods, squinting through his blackened eyes. "Did you see her, Sammy?"

"No, but what else could do this?" Sam gestures around the room.

"So how did you know what color her hair was?" 

Sam swallows. "Uh, I may have seen her in my dreams." Dean's face darkens, his brows drawing down. "But I swear to God, Dean, I didn't know she was going to do this."

"Fuck it, we don't have time to argue about your stupid powers. She's got Cas, and we have to--" Dean takes a step and nearly falls to his knees; Sam is the only thing keeping him standing now. Dean gives a shout of pain, holding his right arm tight against his side. Sam cranes his neck to survey the damage on Dean's right side, his eyes going wide. 

"Holy shit."

"What's happening?" Bobby calls out. "Somebody talk to me, goddamnit!"

"I have to call you back!" Sam yells into the phone before pocketing it and supporting Dean one-handed. "Come on, we need to get you to a hospital."

"What? No, we need to get on the road."

Sam holds his brother by the shoulders, facing him squarely and speaking in a slow, methodical tone. "Dean. Your arm's broken. Your bones are sticking out of your elbow."

Dean crinkles his forehead as if he doesn't believe his brother, but one glance down at his blood-soaked arm and he can see it's the truth. The white gleam of bones pokes out from the bend of his arm. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat. "We can patch it up and--"

"You're losing blood. You need a doctor," Sam insists.

"But Cas," Dean says. "I can't leave him all alone out there." Even as he says it, he collapses to one knee. 

"You're no use to anyone in this shape. Now come on."

Sam manhandles his brother as gently as he can into the passenger seat of the Impala, and he's ready to get behind the wheel when he remembers what he left behind in room five. He curses and orders Dean to stay where he is, balling up an old shirt from the trunk and throwing it through the window into Dean's lap. 

"Use that. Keep pressure on it. I'll be right back."

Roy and Walt are where he left them, tied up on the beds. They're awake, blinking groggily. 

"Did a bomb just go off?" Walt slurs.

Sam rushes to undo their bindings. "I don't have time to deal with you right now. That witch just grabbed Cas. Dean's hurt and I need to--" He pauses to take a breath. "Screw it, you guys don't even care. Just get the hell out of here. Go home where it's safe."

"You're letting us go?" Roy looks up at him with wide eyes. 

A sharp nod and Sam's heading for the door. "Consider it your lucky day," he says darkly. 

"Winchester!" Sam turns at Walt's shout. Walt shrugs. "I didn't tell the angel guy this, was trying to play it close to the vest, but the GPS put the witch at Home of Truth. If she took your friend, you'll find them there." 

"Yeah, I figured," Sam says. It's good to have confirmation of Bobby's hunch, at any rate. "Thanks." He hustles back to the car, where Dean seems to be concentrating on staying conscious. 

"Should've left them to rot for awhile," Dean mutters, glaring at Sam through slitted eyes. His entire right side is slick with blood. 

Sam says nothing and guns the engine.

______________

Cas opens his eyes to the sight of a plank floor covered in two inches of dust. He's laying on his side, his arms and feet bound by rough rope. His stomach churns like he's about to vomit. This must be what humans feel when they pass through spacetime, he realizes. No wonder Dean disliked it so much. He shuts his eyes against the bright sunlight filtering through a dirty pane of glass and tries keep the bile down.

"Back to the land of the living," a female voice croons. "Did you really think you could sic a psychic after me and I wouldn't know about it?"

Cas forces his eyes open again. He's expecting to see the pointed toe of a boot in front of his face, but instead there's a scuffed sneaker, streaked in dirt. Cas's eyes travel up to see Cindy Thomas, dressed casually in wide leg jeans and a hooded sweatshirt with a yellow cartoon bird emblazoned across the chest. 

The witch must register Cas's look of confusion, because she laughs lightly and gestures down at herself. "Yeah, not my best look, but when you're on the run from a bunch of asshole hunters, you don't throw pantsuits into your go bag, you know what I mean?"

Cas does not know what she means, but he doesn't let her know that. Now that the witch isn't hidden by the cover of her explosive spells, he sees she's petite, with her red hair hanging loose around her shoulders. She's older than he thought at first, possibly mid-forties, though you can never really tell with witches. 

"So!" Cindy Thomas claps her hands together and sinks into a graceful crouch in front of Cas. "Castiel. Former angel of the Lord. Current regular joe. Comfortable?" She grips him tightly by the hair on the back of his head and yanks until he's forced onto his knees. "Oh, here, let me get that for you." Her slim white hand darts forward and digs around in Cas's inner jacket pocket. She extracts the canteen with a flourish. Cas watches, his jaw locked tight; he doesn't allow his moan of despair to escape. 

"Hm, hot potato." Cindy tosses it from hand to hand. "This is going to be fun, I can tell. Now I just need to add the pieces you brought to the pieces I had my monster friends bring me and voilà." She pulls a small velvet pouch from the pocket of her sweater, shaking it to clink the rocks inside. 

"A human cannot stand in the presence of whole, undiluted grace," Cas grounds out between clenched teeth. He struggles to sit up, leaning back against a rough wooden wall. "You are a fool if you think you can use it for your own purposes."

The witch smiles, an empty grin that does not reach her eyes. " _My_ purposes? Angel, we need to get you up to speed." She pockets the pouch and the canteen and stands to her full height. "Can't believe you haven't figured it out yet."

She moves away, across the room. Cas fights to loosen his bindings, but they're too strong. The best he can do is half-crawl, half-wriggle across the floor until he can see around a pile of dilapidated barrels. Cindy stands beyond them, next to an altar that's been cobbled together with rotting wood and barbed wire. A brass plate sits on top of a black cloth, and Cas bites back the curse that wells up on his tongue. 

The witch drops a bundle of sage in the bowl. Fire catches and ignites. She looks up at the dingy ceiling, a look of rapture painted across her face. 

"Hey there, big boy." She licks her lips. "Why don't you come on up and see me sometime?"

Cas doesn't need to look up to know what's casting the sudden shadow over him. Dread sinks into his stomach, roiling with the nausea and the pain. A mirror-polished black loafer appears in front of his face, and Cas can't help the instinct that bubbles up in his soul; he spits on it with all the fury he cannot express in words. A red silk handkerchief descends to wipe the shoe clean. 

"Tsk, tsk," says Crowley. "Is that any way to greet your new king?"

______________

Sam comes back to the white curtained cubicle where they're keeping Dean, a tiny paper cup of tepid coffee in his hand. "How's it going?" he asks. 

"Like shit," his brother answers at the same time the nurse practitioner says, "Just fine, sir." Dean makes a face at the older woman, his mouth set in a disgusted grimace, but she doesn't even look up from the work she's doing on his arm. 

"Come on, this is taking forever. You haven't even stitched me up yet!" Dean complains. 

"Sir, I am very sorry, but you're going nowhere just yet." She draws something out of Dean's elbow with her forceps and plunks the bloody, charred splinter into a steel bowl. "The wound needs to be cleaned before I can put in stitches. If you want to be Mister Tough Guy and leave now, go right ahead, but don't come crying to me when you pass out from blood loss." She presses some gauze to the wound, mopping up the oozing blood. 

"Okay, are we talking like another hour...?" Sam asks; he's always been better with nurses and doctors. Dean just doesn't listen to them. 

The nurse shakes her head. "A lot longer. I still have to get Agent Page fitted with a sling, you know." 

"A sling?" Dean balks. Sam gives him a look that says, _Shut up and act a little more like Agent Page of the FBI before we get thrown out of here altogether_. Dean swallows and winces as another piece of motel furniture is removed from his skin. 

The nurse sighs. "Wait here, I need to get more gauze." She exits the cubicle with the steel bowl full of detritus. 

Dean stares up at his brother, his teeth clenched in pain. "We're wasting time. You need to go ahead without me."

"Dean, it'll just take a couple more hours--"

"Cas may not have a couple more hours." Dean looks down at his dust-covered boots, his Adam's apple bobbing. When he looks up again, his eyes are bright. Sam can't tell if it's tears or pain. "Please, Sammy. God knows I don't like the idea of sending you to deal with this witch on your own, but, fuck, Cas needs our help." 

Sam stands straighter and steels himself with a small nod. He's slipping back into that methodical mindset he lived in for the six months that never were, when Dean was dead and Sam was alone. Except he's not alone now, and neither is Cas. "Okay. Okay, you're right." His mind flicks through the steps he needs to take. He tosses his coffee cup into a nearby trash can. "You need to call Bobby. He was hunting in Nebraska, he's already on the road. Tell him to swing by and pick you up. You got your forty-five?" 

"Yeah." Dean pats himself on the small of his back. "You said this place, Home of Truth, isn't far, right?" 

"Right."

Dean points at him with his good hand, his injured arm still laying limp on the examination table. "You get there as fast as you can, hear me? Break every speed limit there is. Me and Bobby'll be right behind you."

"Sure." Sam turns to go, already digging in his pocket for the Impala's keys. 

"And Sam?" Sam looks back at Dean. Dean eyes him like he can see the change. Like he knows this is what his brother looks like when he's in charge of the situation. "Take care," Dean says, his throat tight. 

"Don't worry, I will." Sam wastes exactly ten more seconds giving his brother a one-armed hug of reassurance, and then he's gone. 

______________

Cas isn't sure why he's surprised at how his own blood tastes. He knows the metals and elements that make up the human body; he's had extensive experience in rebuilding two of them, after all. And yet he wasn't expecting the blood in his mouth to taste the way a rusted cemetery gate smells. Perhaps, he thinks idly, this was a deliberate choice when the Father first fashioned man. It would be very poetic, even for Him.

Crowley kicks him again in the ribs. Cas spits more blood on the floor. 

"This is what happens," another vicious kick, "when you screw over," another, "a crossroads demon!" Crowley stops for a moment, looking down at Cas's comma-curled body. "Say what you want about me, Castiel, but when I make a deal, I honor it. We had an accord, a fair one. All I wanted was my own little corner of hell." He lifts his hands in the air in a faux-helpless gesture.

The demon strides across the room, lifts a moth-eaten curtain to glance out a window, then drops it again. "But once you had a taste, oh momma, you just couldn't help yourself," Crowley murmurs to the glass. "And now? I'm going to get a lot more than I bargained for, that's for damned sure."

He turns, his long black coat swirling around his legs, his hands clasped behind him. Cas glares up at him through an aching black eye. 

"Do you know what I'm going to do with your jettisoned grace?" Crowley asks in his lilting voice. 

Cas doesn't say anything. He hasn't said a word since Crowley arrived; he doesn't want to give him the pleasure. 

Crowley answers for him, crouching low as he speaks. "That stupid cunt Meg's got it all wrong. The angels have left the building and what does she do? She starts pounding on the pearly gates. Well, I've never seen heaven myself, but from what I hear, it's a piss-poor excuse for eternal life. Who wants to relive the same fucking Christmas morning over and over? Idiots, that's who." He flicks a speck of dirt from his immaculate gray shirt cuff. "Let her have heaven, I say. Now earth, that's a party I want to crash." The gleam in his eye is unholy. 

"But to do that, I needed something along the lines of ten million atom bombs' worth of power. Then you fell, which was convenient for me. And luckily, Cindy here had all the skills to find your missing bits. Now that I have them," he says, "I'm going to drink down your grace like it's single-malt. Then, when I have all the power of a demon _and_ an angel, not even Lucifer will be able to stop me. 

"The first thing I'm going to do is tear down the path between the Pit and the World and put in a fucking service elevator. You think you're knee-deep in demons now? Every last one of them is going to be crawling around the globe screaming, free at last, free at last, thank the Demon King, I'm free at last." Crowley laughs, his face tilted up to the ceiling. "Hell on earth and a throne with my name on it. Sounds more like heaven than heaven."

Cas shifts his hardened gaze to Cindy, who's examining her nails by the light of a dirty window in the corner. "Why would you betray humanity like this?" he hisses. 

The witch lifts the corner of her mouth in a unsmiling smirk. "I made a deal. My sisters and I will become the ruling class. All the spoils of war will go to those who practice the dark arts." She shrugs. "Not bad for a few centuries' work."

"He will destroy the world, you fool." 

"We'll see who's the fool when I'm swimming in diamonds and rubies," she scoffs. 

"Oh, I don't think poor Castiel will be around long enough to witness that." Crowley pulls an exaggerated frown. "Shame. The little angel that could, reduced to this." He gives Cas one final kick to his aching ribs, then turns to the witch. "Cindy, darling, may I have my grace now?" He holds out a patient hand. 

The witch reaches into her sweatshirt and pulls out the velvet pouch and steel canteen, rattling them triumphantly in the air. Crowley receives them with an indulgent smile. He opens them, shaking the stones into his square palm. Cas can't bring himself to look; the sight of his grace, an integral piece of himself, in the hands of this demon is too much to bear. He presses his cheek flat against the floor and looks away. 

There's a short pause before Crowley growls, "Where's the rest of it, then?"

Cas looks up and he sees Cindy's face creased in honest confusion. "What do you mean? There should be twelve pieces, the three that I found and the nine that he was carrying."

Crowley recounts the stones in his palm, touching each one in turn. "He only had eight. Where's the twelfth piece, pet?"

Cindy blanches, suddenly looking very human in her birdie sweatshirt. "I--I don't know. He must have hidden it."

"You had _one_ job," Crowley growls at her. Then he looks back down at Cas, his head twisted sideways to look him in the eye. "I'm only going to ask this once, angel. After that, it's all going to be nonverbal. Where. Is. It."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Cas says. He feels strong in the knowledge that it's not a lie: the twelfth piece is still out there, lost in the world. The thought makes Cas almost smile, his bruised jaw stinging with pain.

Crowley roars. He strikes out at the altar, wood splintering and barbed wire clanging to the floor. "These bits are useless!"

Cindy flinches back into a corner, her eyes wide. "We have eleven. Isn't that enough for you?"

" _Isn't that enough?_ " Crowley imitates in a high, mocking voice. "No, it's bloody well not! This isn't Monopoly money; it's angelic grace! It wants to be whole. If I try to swallow this down now, it would rip me apart, you idiot!"

"I'm sorry--"

"You're sorry? Oh, madam, you don't know the meaning of that word."

The distraction gives Cas the opportunity to pull at the rope binding his wrists behind his back. The rough fibers cut cruelly into his skin; he can feel the slickness of blood, but he doesn't stop until his sore shoulder wrenches upward, freeing one hand at last. He reaches down to unbind his feet, watching Crowley and the witch on the other side of the room, arguing back and forth about who's at fault.

Cas's muscles protest as he gets to his feet, but he doesn't have time to get his bearings. He runs for the door just as Cindy sees him, her shout of anger following him out into the bright desert sunlight. If he can just get away, find some shelter, hide for a moment, maybe he can--

He stops short. Outside, among the scrub brush and ghostly remnants of the town, stand dozens and dozens of witches. Some are dressed like carnival folk or gypsies or masquerade-goers, some are dressed in street clothes or business suits. They all turn to stare at Cas, panting in the doorway of the ramshackle house. He can smell the crackle of magic building around them. 

"Get him!" Cindy yells from behind him, and everyone is galvanized into action. Cas ducks right, weaving between a few of the slower women, dodging the bursts of fireballs and ice spheres thrown by others. He sees a towering rock formation on the horizon and, for lack of a better goal, runs toward it. 

Cas is very aware of several things in that moment: he has no weapons, no defenses, and no allies. He doesn't even have the piece of chalk or spring of rosemary he'd need to create the simplest of protective sigils. He's powerless. He's pretty sure a few of his ribs are cracked. And he can hear the witches right behind him, gaining ground. 

If this is where he's going to die, Cas resolves he'll die on his feet, facing his enemies. He stops and turns, his fists poised for his final fight. Some of the witches stop in their tracks, surprised by his sudden about-face. Cindy is there at the front of the pack, still advancing on him. She carries the purple velvet pouch clutched in her hand; Cas can feel the three pieces of grace inside calling to him. 

"Oh, I'm going to enjoy this," Cindy seethes. Fiery energy builds around her, her red hair crackling on end as if lightning is about to strike. 

"Stop." The voice cuts through the desert air like a knife. Cindy's spell abates, replaced by cool silence. Sam steps out from behind an abandoned shed, his hand outstretched. Cas holds his breath, convinced this is a mirage of some kind. He catches Sam's eye, then glances plaintively at the velvet pouch in the witch's hand. Sam nods in understanding.

"Winchester," the witch sneers. "If you think your little parlor tricks mean anything here--"

"Oh yeah?" Sam says. A flick of his hand, and the velvet bag flies from Cindy's fingers and into Sam's grasp. "Keep talking."

The witch lunges at him with a scream, and time seems to slow to a blur. Sam tosses two knives to Cas, who catches them just in time to block an attack from a girl with dead eyes and a black cape. He slices the blade across her throat, and she falls along with her spell. Cas doesn't have time to see if she's dead; he's whirling through the witches, a knife in each hand, coursing with adrenaline. 

"Where's Dean?" he shouts as he pulls his knife out of a witch's abdomen. 

Sam shoulders his gun and fires into the crowd. Cas can see the flask of holy water peeking out of his jacket's breast pocket; the bullets are much more effective when doused, he sees. "Dean's coming," Sam hedges. 

Cas nearly falters. "Is he all right?" A witch leaps onto his back, poisonous magic on her breath, and Cas drives the point of his knife down into her leg to escape her grasp. 

"He's fine, he's coming!" Sam shouts. 

The coven is thinning as witches are downed or retreat. Only Cindy stands her ground, her eyes whiting out like a blind man's, murmuring a spell to herself. Cas fights his way toward Sam, standing against the last of the witches. At Cindy's feet, the earth starts opening up, cracking in a long schism that stretches its gnarled fingers towards Sam and Cas.

"Sam?" 

Sam doesn't answer. His head is bowed in concentration, his hand raised, fingers splayed. There is a loud boom, like stone shattering in the distance, and Cas raises his eyes to see one of the larger buildings in the ghost town floating into the air, its windows shattering and walls groaning as it's lifted by Sam's invisible power. 

Cindy does not see the house hovering above her until it's too late. She looks up as its shadow passes over her, her eyes wide not in fear, but in hatred. Then Sam closes his hand into a fist, and the building drops. When the dust settles, Cas sees one sneakered foot sticking out from under the foundation.

Cas turns to Sam, who looks just as surprised as Cas does at this display of power. "You won't be taking her shoes, will you?"

"Dude." Sam reaches into his coat and retrieves the velvet pouch. "You know Wizard of Oz?"

"Dean showed the film to me once at Bobby's. He claimed it was a classic relic of western civilization."

"You watched Wizard of Oz _without me_?" Sam shakes his head and hands over the pouch. "Whatever. So what's in the bag?"

"My grace. Crowley has the remaining pieces, save one, which is still missing. He needs all of them in order to complete his plan." 

"That's at least some good news," Sam says, slinging his gun's strap over his shoulder. "We should regroup before Crowley shows up."

Cas scans the washed-out landscape and spies the ghost town's tallest structure, an old church. "This way," he says, and leads Sam toward it. 

______________

Dean groans in the passenger seat of Bobby's Bronco, swiping his good hand over his eyes. Up ahead, red and blue flashers are lighting up the highway. Traffic slows, then comes to a standstill. 

"What now?" Dean growls. He pops open his door to step out onto the road, his right arm itching in its new sling. 

Bobby exits the car too, and together they look past the snarl of idling cars to the semi-truck turned on its side up ahead, its cargo of shiny oranges spilling across the asphalt like a ball pit gone wrong.

"Aw, shit," Bobby curses, looking at the emergency vehicles blocking the shoulder. He flips his fake CIA badge out of his jacket pocket and starts walking toward a knot of police cruisers. "Stay here, I'm going to see if they'll let us pass."

Dean takes a few anxious steps between the parked cars, too keyed up to get back in the passenger seat and just wait. He scans the road, then spots a state trooper talking to what must be the semi-truck's driver. Their conversation looks animated, so Dean wanders closer, leaning up against a car, casually out of sight.

"I told you, I don't know how else to explain it!" the trucker cries. "It was like a man dressed up like an animal. It jumped right on the roof of my cab and tried to climb through my side window." 

"And that's when you lost control of your rig," the cop says, his voice heavy with skepticism. He jots something on his notepad. 

The driver doesn't back down. "I'm no liar, that thing was after me! I'm lucky to be alive."

The state trooper removes his mirrored sunglasses. "We're going to need you to take a breathalyzer test, all right, sir?"

"But--!"

Dean doesn't stick around to listen to the driver's next protest. He pushes away from the stalled car and ambles down the nooks between the cars, searching for some clue as to what attacked the truck. From the driver's description, it sounds to Dean like a chimera, but what would one of those be doing north of Mexico? And why would a carnivore attack a fruit truck? 

Dean walks until he reaches a pile of the scattered oranges, waxy and strange in the desert light. He crouches down to examine them, awkwardly holding his sling away for balance. The oranges seem normal enough, and Dean is about to leave when he catches a glint of something out of the corner of his eye. There, embedded in one of the oranges, is a jagged piece of gray rock. Granite, maybe. Nothing special. 

Except it's stuck in some fruit that was on a truck that was attacked by a chimera in broad daylight, Dean reminds himself. He reaches out with his good hand and touches the rock with just the tips of his fingers. 

Instantly, a rush of heat races up his arm, like there's whiskey in his veins. He smells ozone and gardens and, though he can't explain how, he can feel his name being said over and over. There's no sound, no voice in his head, just a wordless thought insisting _Dean, Dean, Dean_. 

"Fuck." Dean pulls his hand away and the sensations stop. He looks around cautiously, but no one's seen him. He takes a kerchief out of his back pocket and carefully pulls the rock out of the orange, wiping it clean of juice. The rock lays unassuming against the blue cotton in his palm, and Dean wonders if he's going crazy, or if he's really holding a piece of Castiel in his hand. 

"Hey." Bobby comes into view from behind a minivan, and Dean nearly keels over in surprise.

"Jesus! A little warning," he says. "Listen, Bobby, I think I found something."

"Yeah? So did I. We're not the only idiots on this road with fake Fed badges."

"Huh?" Dean squints up at him.

Bobby jerks his head to the side. "Get in the car. We've got some calls to make." 

"Calls? To who?"

"Everyone," Bobby says, and stalks back to the Bronco. 

______________

The chapel is cool and dark. Cas checks the baptismal font on the altar, but it's bone dry. "Crowley means to tear down the veil between hell and earth," he tells Sam. 

"But he can't do that as long as we have these, right?" Sam points to the stones that Cas is now counting out into his shaking palm. 

"Yes. But I doubt he will let us keep them so easily." Cas rolls the three rocks around in his hand. One shard of agate, one piece of quartz, one Petoskey stone webbed in fossilized coral. They pulse with unseen grace, tugging at something deep in Cas's stomach. 

"Where is Dean?" Cas asks again. 

"He's on his way, I swear. He got a little held up, is all."

Cas seizes on a thought so painful, he almost can't ask. He doesn't take his eyes off the three stones. "Has he...given up on me?" 

"What? No!" Sam lays a hand on Cas's arm and keeps it there until Cas meets his eyes. "Dean wanted to be here, okay? But the hospital wouldn't let--"

"Hospital?" Cas's heart hammers in his chest. 

"He's going to be fine, Jesus. Don't worry about that." Sam sighs. "I can't tell you how much it was killing him to stay behind. I felt it for miles after I left. He hasn't abandoned you, Cas. He wouldn't do that."

"I'd deserve it, if he did." Cas blinked down at the dusty floorboards. "I did the same to him."

"Can we focus here? Demon trying to end the world? We can wallow later, all right?"

When Sam Winchester thinks you're too self-indulgent in your personal pain, then you're really in trouble, Cas thinks. He pushes the dark thoughts from his mind and concentrates on the task at hand. Crowley. The stones. The gateway. 

"Sam," he says slowly, "do you know the story behind Ruby's knife?"

"Uh, it could kill demons. I always figured it was made of something holy."

Cas picks up the agate and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. "One of my brothers was wounded eons ago in battle, and the shard of grace he bled was used to forge the knife."

Sam frowns. "Are you saying we should use what grace we have to, I don't know, make a weapon to kill Crowley?"

"There are two problems with that," Cas says. "For one, we do not have the means to forge such a weapon here. For another, my grace needs to be complete to attain its full potential."

"Use a tiny sliver, you mean, and you can't get your mojo back." 

"Correct. I'm only telling you this, Sam, because if I'm killed today--"

"Don't. Everything's going to be fine."

"--I want you to use these shards to make new knives. Do you understand?"

Sam swallows, then nods. "Yeah. But that's, like, Plan X. The last resort. What's Plan A? Get out of here and find the missing piece before Crowley does?"

"That would be the next logical step." Cas turns back to the altar and stares up at the shadow on the wall where the crucifix had been nailed. "I can only hope Crowley cannot enter consecrated ground."

"Guess what, buttercup?" a voice booms in the doorway of the sacristy. Cas and Sam turn to find Crowley lounging against the doorframe, his immaculate black suit blending perfectly with the shadows. "I can."

______________

Dean twitches in the passenger seat, his injured arm making an abortive move in its sling. He grunts in frustration and reaches his left hand across his chest to scratch his right elbow, but sits back up after a moment of fruitless stretching.

"What the hell is your problem?" Bobby barks from the driver's seat. "You know, aside from the obvious."

"Hate this thing," Dean mutters, staring down at his arm. 

"Christ, boy, just leave it be. Get your goddamn head in the game." Bobby checks his cell phone, a quick glance from the road to its tiny screen. "You ready for this? Home of Truth should be coming up in about thirty more miles." 

"Rock and roll." Dean takes out his own cell, holding it up to the window, but there's still no text back from Sam. Dean considers calling again, but knows it'll just go to voicemail like the last fifty times. He cranes his neck around to look out the back window at the line of cars and trucks stretching out behind them. "This had better work."

______________

Cas reloads using a salt-round clip that's been doused with Sam's holy water. It's not stopping any of the demons that had joined the party in the streets of Home of Truth, but at least it's slowing them down. He leans around the corner of a house just enough to get off another round of shots. 

"Few headshots in there," Sam pants, reloading as well. "Not bad."

"Your continued attempts to improve my morale are appreciated," Cas bites out, "but I'd rather we found a way out of here instead." 

They're pinned down behind the building, where they've been sheltering since escaping the church. Sam had chosen the building for its small size, figuring it would be easy to lay salt lines around it, but the door was jammed and they'd ended up stuck on the lean-to porch. To make matters worse, there are about fifty of Crowley's lackeys advancing on them in one chaotic, writhing mass. 

Cas peeks around the side of the porch, seeing Crowley and the horde of black-eyed demons and witches standing a few hundred yards in the distance. The sheer number of them is astounding, and Cas feels cold acceptance wash over him again. 

Sam uses up his last clip, his gun clicking emptily. "Sorry, but I'm out of ideas," he says. His hazel eyes meet Cas's, and they look at each other in sober understanding. 

Cas hefts his semiautomatic in his hands. "Then know that I'm proud to be standing here next to you, Sam. It's a better end than I expected for myself." 

"Hey. Same here." Sam's jaw works like his brother's sometimes does when withholding emotion. Cas watches it sadly, wishing he could see Dean one last time. 

"Castiel!" Crowley calls in a wheedling tone. "Why don't you come out and hand over your shiny rocks?" 

Cas steels himself for whatever may come next, but there's no possible way he could be prepared for it. Instead of the cursed beings overtaking him and Sam, they're cut down in a hail of gunfire. They screech and cry, running in every direction. As they fall, Cas sees the streets of Home of Truth filled with the dark silhouettes of dozens of people. 

There are men and women of every type, humans dressed in worn flannel and armed with rifles. There is a tight knot of strangers dressed in Japanese robes, cutting down demons with their curved swords. There are witches, too, dressed all in white and throwing spheres of pure energy at their dark sisters. Some people Cas recognizes: Roy and Walt, leaping into the fray, guns blazing. Bobby Singer, moving methodically through the crowd with his double-barrelled shotgun. And in the middle of all this madness, Cas sees one beloved face, aiming with deadly accuracy even with his dominant hand held up in a black sling. 

"Dean!" Cas shouts, and Dean manages to throw a grin in his direction before shooting a black-eyed demon in the chest. 

"Thought you could use some backup!" he shouts back. "Bobby went through his whole little black book!" 

"Amazing how many hunters owe me a goddamn favor," Bobby calls over the noise.

"Yeah, and amazing how many were tracking demons and witches to this spot already," Roy adds.

Cas pulls his knife out of his boot, and Sam accepts a loaded gun from one of the other hunters, and just like that they're back in the fight, side-by-side with Dean, cutting down enemies in swaths. 

"Where's the redheaded witch?" Dean asks Sam over the hail of bullets. 

Sam indicates the smashed house with the barrel of his gun. "Under there."

"Whoa." Dean whistles. "Ding fucking dong!"

"Yeah, Cas already made that reference," Sam says begrudgingly. 

"Seriously?" Dean's delight is palpable as he slams a new clip home. "That's my Cas." 

"Crowley is here," Cas says to Dean when he finds himself fighting back-to-back with him.

"Where?"

Cas looks around the battlefield, but he sees no sign of the demon. "I'm not certain. Be on guard." 

Dean looks over his shoulder at him, the specks of blood on his face doing nothing to diminish his beauty. "Always." 

There's a tug low in Cas's belly, and at first he assumes it's the same emotion he always feels around Dean, that pull of want. But it's different, and it takes him a moment to place it. 

"Dean! You have the twelfth shard!" 

Dean deflects a wild blow from a demon and shoots it in the knee to disable it. "Yeah, picked it up near the state line. Long story." He flashes a brilliant smile. "You're welcome."

Icy tendrils of fear grab hold of Cas's heart. "But--"

A demon lunges at Cas, and it goes down with a sharp cry at the bite of his knife. There had been no one behind her when she'd first rushed toward Cas, but as soon as she hits the dirt Cas looks up and sees Crowley standing there, unmoved and unruffled by the battle raging around them. 

"Thanks for finding my missing puzzle piece, Winchester," he says. He raises a hand and orange fire leaps in the air. Cas drags Dean down to the ground with him, ducking under the flames. One of the white witches attacks Crowley with her earth magic, but he's distracted for only the moment it takes to reach out and break her neck. 

Cas regains his feet and pulls Dean after him, running toward one of the last buildings standing. He slides under its raised front steps, and Dean follows close behind. They press close in the dark, Cas surveying Dean's sling. 

"Your arm," he says softly.

"Your face," Dean murmurs, drawing a thumb over Cas's bruised jawline. "You going to be okay?"

Cas nods tightly. "We need to get the grace from Crowley before he gets it from us." 

"And then you can go all angelic on him, right?" Dean says. "So how do we--?"

He's cut off at the sight of Sam, fighting his way through the sea of demons, using his abilities to exorcise them completely. The dark spirits leave their host bodies as soon as Sam touches them, leaving behind a shower of sparks and smoke. The power Sam wields is amazing, and some of the lesser demons retreat as they see him coming. But Sam doesn't see Crowley appear right behind him. 

"Sa--!" Dean almost screams; Cas claps a hand over his mouth, not wanting to give away their position. It's too late, anyway. Sam turns and Crowley reaches out with fingers like talons, digging into his chest. Sam cries out, grabbing at the demon's arm as if to stop him, but Crowley doesn't pause. He squeezes like he's crushing the life right out of Sam Winchester's heart. And he is. 

Cas can feel the syllables of Sam's name against his fingers as Dean silently calls out for him over and over. "I'm sorry, Dean, I'm sorry," he repeats in Dean's ear. 

Sam folds onto his knees, his eyes going cloudy before he falls lifeless to the ground. His blood runs in streams through the sand. Crowley lifts his red hand and examines it with satisfaction. 

"Oh god," Dean says against Cas's palm, "oh fuck, Sammy, no." 

Crowley shouts over the continuing sounds of battle: "If you want him back, Dean, you just need to hand me four little stones."

Dean is already scrabbling at his pocket, palming the rock there. Cas can feel it, a fiery piece of angelic light caught in a chunk of plain gray stone. "Give me yours," Dean says.

"You can't, Dean," Cas hisses. 

"But Sam--"

"Crowley will use those to become more powerful than Satan. He wants to bring hell on earth. I can't let him do that."

Dean looks at Cas, his eyes bright and wild. He's breathing like a locomotive. "What do we do?" he asks. "I don't know what-- Just tell me what to do, Cas."

"This offer has a time limit," Crowley calls out. A hunter attempts to cut him down with a sword, but Crowley lights her up in flames. 

Cas watches this and watches Dean's face, and he wonders if it was always going to come down to this: heaven or Dean. It seems that every turn he's taken has led him to the same choice, and each and every time, he knows which one he'll choose. 

Cas takes the stone from Dean's slack hand and removes the velvet pouch from his jacket. "Wait here," he says. He crawls toward the edge of the foundation, but Dean's hand on his arm stops him.

"What are you going to do?" Dean asks.

Cas pauses for a second, then places a tender kiss at the corner of Dean's mouth. "I'm going to use what grace I have to work what miracles I can," he says.

"But I thought you needed the complete set before you turned back into an angel," Dean says. Cas does not answer, just holds his gaze, unblinking and steady. "Cas, what--?"

"I love you," Cas says quietly, "to the ends of the earth." And then he's gone, ducking back into the sunlight, the four stones cradled in his hands. He hears Dean behind him, shouting warnings and threats, but he ignores them. He focuses on the stones, the third of his grace he's managed to find in the end. They want to be whole, certainly, but they also yearn to come home to him. He is counting on that. 

The stones shiver in his hands, burning bright white as he concentrates on them. He presses them to his chest, against the scar over his heart, and silently asks them for one last prayer to be answered. 

Cas is lit up from within, lightning painting its way through his body, transforming him into something less than an angel but infinitely more than a man. He opens his eyes, and bright sparks leak from the corners, white replacing blue, strength replacing fear. He's burning hot and quickly. There's not much time. 

Crowley snarls at him, his face wrenched wickedly in anger. "You stupid feathered fool," he says, "you've wasted it. Now nobody gets all that power!" 

Cas takes one step forward. Underneath his boot, grass springs up through the parched desert sand. White-tipped star-vines and translucent ghost flowers bloom around his footprint. He takes another step, leaves another island of life in the sand. Silence. White light. The scent of leaves. 

"So be it," Cas intones in a thousand voices. Crowley still doesn't understand, he can see it in his dumbfounded eyes. How could he? This is unprecedented. Cas holds the shard of agate between his knuckles, a makeshift angel blade. 

He strikes across Crowley's white throat, drawing a line of electricity instead of blood, the death knell of demons. The stolen body crumples to the ground in its fitted suit, finally free of its parasite. 

The other demons pause in their fighting, their black eyes wide. Cas smells their fear, stinking and bloated like the dead. "Go," he tells them, and they vanish back to hell. The hunters stand blinking, their weapons raised against nothing. 

And then there's Sam. Cas kneels next to his quiet body, succulents and grasses rising up from the unforgiving ground around him. Sam's eyes are open and sightless, his chest a gaping wound. Cas sees all this and feels his heart pound double-time within him. 

Dean is at his side, a hand raised as if afraid to touch him in this state. "Cas? You okay?"

"Yes." Cas places a reassuring hand on Dean's right arm, the one in the sling, and Dean hisses in surprise as the bones and flesh knit back together, the sling falling away. "I am almost finished here."

He moves his hand to Sam's pale forehead, pressing his fingertips there. The blood drains back into Sam's body like a film in reverse, and his heart beats in his open chest before new skin covers it too. Sam's eyes open, blinking at the darkening sky, as he gasps awake.

"Oh my god, Cas," Dean murmurs, "you did it! You--"

The light recedes from Cas. The hum of power leaves his skin. Cas's eyes flicker and die out. He slumps into Dean's arms as if boneless. 

Sam sits up. "D-did he just bring me back?" he asks nobody in particular.

"Cas." Dean shakes him, patting his cool cheek. "Cas! Wake up, open your eyes." Nothing moves.

Sam reaches for them, holding the back of his palm in front of Cas's slack lips. He waits a beat, then says, "Dean. He's not breathing."

The hunters are gathering around them now, silent and grave. Dean looks around at them wildly, his eyes fastening on Bobby. "Bobby! You got to have something, some kind of charm or an amulet or--" Bobby sets his teeth into his bottom lip and stares at the ground. He removes his cap from his head. A few other hunters do the same. Dean whirls on them. "Any of you! A spell, an incantation! I don't care what, just--" He looks down at Cas again, rubbing his hands up and down his chilled arms. 

"Cas? Come on, don't do this. Don't fucking--" Dean looks up at the heavens, shouting, "He's your son! Your brother! Help him! You can't just leave him like this, like--" His breath hitches, and his shoulders shake. From the angels, there is no answer. 

Sam is the first to move. He takes Cas's still body from Dean's arms, even as his brother protests. "They're not coming, Dean. It's up to us, okay? This is on us now. Stayin' Alive, Stayin' Alive, remember?" 

Dean nods numbly. It's that song and the voice of John Winchester, who taught them this skill years ago, that sticks in Dean's head as he does chest compressions and Sam breathes into Cas's slack mouth. Dean knows how statistically unlikely it is that CPR will restart a person's heart and lungs on its own, but he doesn't care. As long as Sam is breathing, Dean keeps pressing his joined hands on Cas's ribcage. His arms ache and his shoulders are on fire, and he's pretty sure Cas has a few cracked ribs, but he isn't stopping. Even after a very long time passes and he catches Sam's questioning gaze, the one that says _Maybe we should just..._ , Dean doesn't stop.

He doesn't stop until Cas's body jolts into a coughing fit and his blue eyes stare up at the sky. 

______________

Cas wakes up between soft, clean-smelling sheets. The sunlight slants through the room in a familiar way, and it takes him only a moment to realize he's back in Bobby Singer's house. His throat is rough and dry, like he's swallowed a desert.

"Hey." A glass of water appears in front of his eyes, held by a strong, tan hand. Cas's gaze trails up that hand, up the arm, all the way to Dean's face. He takes the glass of water and drinks long and deep before speaking. 

"Did it work?" he asks. 

Dean huffs a laugh, leaning forward in the wicker chair beside the bed. "You took down Crowley, banished all the demons, brought Sam back to life, and somehow didn't die. If that was the plan, then yeah, I'd say it worked." 

Cas hums in thought. "The first three things were on my agenda. I wasn't so certain about the last," he admits. 

"Then why do such a stupid fucking thing?" Dean asks without heat. 

"Because if I had even a chance to save your brother, I had to take it. You know this," Cas says. "He is too much a part of you."

"Yeah, but Cas, now you're stuck on earth forever." Dean shakes his head. "We could've figured out some other way. We could have--"

"Dean." Cas cups a gentle hand to Dean's jaw. "This was my choice, freely given. I regret many things, but I do not regret this." 

Dean's eyes are red and wet. "I love you, you know," he says.

"I know." Cas's smile is small but free from pain. He tugs on Dean's hand, and Dean crawls onto the mattress alongside him. They lay in the morning stillness next to each other, measuring their breaths and heartbeats with gentle touches and long, slow kisses. 

They've been apart for so long, Cas is almost afraid he won't remember how to be with Dean in this way, but his body hasn't forgotten. They move together under the sheets, pulling clothes from each other and discarding them like wrapping paper. Dean presses close and Cas sighs into his hair, relieved to feel warm skin on his. 

Though the air outside the blankets is chilled, they are overheated, sweating and panting against each other. It is not very dignified, Cas knows, but it is so very human, this desperate bid for closeness. Dean's hard cock slips between his sweat-slicked thighs, and Cas gasps at its firmness, its insistent press between his legs. 

Dean kisses his temples, his jaw, his eyelids. "You're still healing," he murmurs against Cas's face. "We shouldn't--"

Cas growls in return, his hand snaking down to squeeze Dean's ass, pressing him closer. "Don't stop."

"I don't want to hurt you," Dean says, his hips rocking shallowly, trapping Cas's cock between them in a delicious rhythm. 

"Then don't stop." Cas seals his mouth over Dean's, kissing him breathless and tightening the vice his thighs make around Dean's hardness. He's not even sure what they're doing, he only knows it feels amazing. He looks up and sees Dean watching him, eyes blown wide and dark with wonder. 

Cas holds onto that moment, imprinting it into his memory. He has seen the birth of the stars; he has heard the angels of heaven sing; he has felt the virgin earth under his feet. But he is willing to forget all of that if it means keeping this one moment: Dean, skin flushed and damp, his hair mussed and his shoulders bunched with restrained strength, his lips forming Cas's name, his new name, not Castiel any longer, just Cas, Cas, Dean's Cas. 

Cas comes without a single hand touching his cock, releasing rapturously between their bodies. He feels Dean's completion too, between his thighs. It's messy and sticky and smells heavy like brine, and Cas can't seem to breathe enough anymore. 

And suddenly a mortal life does not seem like such a hardship after all. 

______________

Epilogue 

After Home of Truth, some of the hunters came back to Bobby's place, set up camp in the junkyard, and never left. The younger hunters especially refused to go until Cas recovered. They'd heard stories: The Last Angel, the fallen warrior, the eons-old hunter. They wanted to learn at his knee (Bobby's words) and soak up the knowledge of a being who'd seen the planet created. And after Cas was able to get out of bed, he was more than happy to oblige. 

It's Tuesday night, which is lecture night. Cas stands in front of one of the garage bay doors, an image of a Slenderman projected onto the sheet metal. Two dozen hunters sit cross-legged on the ground, scribbling in their notebooks. Across the yard, Cas can see Sam working with the other psychics, levitating heavy engine blocks through the air. Earlier in the day, Dean had been over there with his group of kids, mostly orphans, focusing on their hand-to-hand training. 

Bobby calls it The Winchester School of Hunting and Slaying. He grouches about having all these people around; says it's more natural for hunters to be loners, but Cas can tell the old man loves showing the next generation how to make salt rounds and draw devils' traps. 

"--and that is how the first Slenderman was created," Cas tells his lecture group. "Any questions?" 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Dean leaning against a rusted car, watching him with a smirk on his face. Dean purses his lips, a long-distance kiss. Cas rolls his eyes. 

"All right, that's it for today," he tells the assembled audience, and they pick themselves off the ground and amble toward one of the garages that's been converted into a barracks of sorts. Dean waits where he is, letting Cas take his time packing up his books and projector. 

"Good talk tonight, professor," he says as Cas approaches loaded down with equipment. 

"The children seem to enjoy the creation stories," he remarks as Dean takes some of his load from him. "I just hope it sticks."

"Sure it will," Dean says lightly. 

Cas looks up at the dusky sky. "Bobby says the knives will arrive tomorrow." He's been waiting for this particular shipment from their weaponry expert for some time. The tangs of the blades will each house a tiny piece of Cas's leftover grace. Demon-killing knives made from Cas himself. He wants to give the blades to the students; a sort of graduation present, Sam had called it. 

"Hey, that's awesome." Dean nods at the knots of students as they pass them by on their way to the house. "I'm glad we did this. It's about time hunters got organized."

"We are stronger this way," Cas agrees. He shifts his books to one arm and reaches for Dean with his free hand, threading their fingers together. They climb up the stairs to the porch. In the distance, Cas can see the wall of the old barn where some of the children have painted the school's de facto slogan, a phrase they'd found in one of Bobby's old lore books: _Nos Nostra Defendere_. 

We Defend Our Own. 

Every night, laying next to Dean's sleep-warm skin in the dark, Cas lets his mind drift back to those words and what they mean: that he has found his family, his place in the universe, and though it doesn't look at all like he'd imagined, it is wonderful and worth defending. 

It is worth even wings.


End file.
